Since 1992, Polly Harvey has been jangling the listener‘s nerves like a handful of keys. Even by her own unsettling standards, however, her seventh album is disturbing, a collection of smudged and spectral laments that appear to have been written before the invention of penicillin. With Harvey shunning guitar for piano and constraining her voice into an ethereally high pitch, the likes of Dear Darkness and To Talk To You sound as if they have come via a ouija board. Proof Harvey is the mistress of the medium and the message.

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